The Power of Seven
by Stranger-jkl
Summary: Seven strangers. A psychologist, a sniper, a millionaire, a professor, a private investigator, a lieutenant, and a radio disco-jockey. These are their stories. Enjoy your stay in Nevada.
1. The Sixth, Prof Fritzgerald Brewster

_Aurora Project Dossier._  
 _Project Supervisor: Rene Netzal._  
 _Co-Supervisor: Anthony Saint-James._  
 _Leading Supernatural Studies Expert: Fritzgerald Brewster._  
 _[END OF DOCUMENT]_

 _Somewhere in an abandoned government 'black-laboratory', Wisconsin._

The clicking of a keyboard was the only sound in the main chamber. Click-click-click. It was enough to drive some over the edge. But not Fritzgerald. Not him. He brushed a stray strand of coal black hair from his eyes, rubbing them as well. He wasn't getting anywhere, and if he wasn't, Netzal would know. And he would be angry. It was funny that such a short man got so angry. Netzal paced around the room, his stride mocking the click-click-click of the keyboard. Netzal peered over at Fritz, his crooked nose still somehow completely unable to not be looked at. Of course, the nose had been broken, by Fritz, but that was aside the point. Or, maybe it wasn't, he mused. Just to think, three months again he was in Salem, home of the Salem Witch Trials (The irony didn't escape him.), teaching diligent students about the legends, and folklore surrounding the odd and weird. Then, a week after, he had been signed onto a project, and forced to fly to Wisconsin. There he met Anthony Saint-James, and discovered what a mess he had gotten into. The scientists were guarded day and night by ruthless mercenaries, whilst Netzal and Saint-James forced them to work, day and night. Anyone who didn't meet the 'research quota' was punished. That was the first straw for Fritzgerald. He threw a powerful left hit, cracking the short (presumably French? He had pondered this, many a time.) man's nose. The only reason he hadn't been fired? He was the only professor of the supernatural who wanted to fly to Wisconsin, and, as such, was just put in the 'cooler', aka, the freezer. Yes, they locked him in a sample freezer. Why? No one knows. Back to the topic at hand, Fritz gulped before turning to face the shorter man.  
"Well Gerald, have anything?"  
"It's Fritzgerald. And..."  
"And?"  
"Non."  
"Speak English."  
"No."  
"What?" And then, the crack of a wooden beam, and Netzal was on the floor. Around Fritz's neck, the item that the project had been intent on activating. An 'orb' of supernatural 'residue' that had been left behind in the first activation of the Device.  
"Turns out, you need someone supernaturally inclined to work this nice lil' pendant. Like me." Just then, Rene Netzal's body was lifted up, as was the wooden board, and he was impaled on it, stuck to the wall, never to move. Or bitch at anyone.  
"See you in hell, friend." On the table, a pocketwatch, yet another thing left behind in the first activation. It has the power to stop time, for a short while. He grabbed the watch, and strode out into the courtyard. Instantly, he had guns in his face. Just as quick, the guns were pinned to the wall, the bullets melted, and firing pins snapped.  
"No." As he strode out, gun after gun after gun was broken, thrown against a wall.  
To the scientists cowering in fear, he said: "Your dictator is dead, follow me." And they did.  
To the guards, their guns were broken.  
And so he marched, an army of scientists of all fields following him. Eventually, the reached the outer limits of the compound. Any remaining guns were broken, and only one person remained. Anthony Saint-James. Co-leader of Project Aurora, and even more sadistic then Netzal. He was shot by his own gun, Fritz having manipulated the bullet into Anthony's skull.  
"Scientists! You are free! Go, run home, for I have one final thing to do. Burn the place down, forever!"  
He struck a match.  
Bent down.  
And touched it to an electric box.  
And up it went.  
Lost, forevermore, to the flames of anger.  
In the chaos of the fire, hours, weeks, and months of study burnt quickly.  
Still somehow awake, Netzal uttered, no, screamed one last word with his dying breath.  
"Fritzgerald! I'll... I'll... Kill... You."  
And then, his body was consumed by the flames, charred beyond recognition, the board still stuck in his stomach.  
Fritzgerald wadded up his lab coat, and tossed it into the pyre, for he was no longer Fritzgerald Brewster, studier of the supernatural and Rene Netzal's little plaything, for now, he was Fritz Brewster, a man in a black coat who sported a top hat and who wrote on his arms when he had no paper.  
Speaking of said black coat, it appeared in his hand, as did the top hat.  
He put them on, straightened his tie, rubbed his tired blue eyes, and walked off to the nearest town.


	2. The First and Second

_London, England._

They say that the dead of night is the quietest. Richard Hawke knew this all too well. Of course, he was looking for a private investigator. One might ask why, but Hawke would brush them off. This wasn't a matter for some junior Yardie. Nor was an issue for some twit named Layton. It was a personal matter. The blond Englishman sighed, before clicking on an ad for some guy named 'Holiday'.

"Let's see if this twit has a fair price." A few minutes later he was on the phone with 'Holiday' the man's Philadelphian accent getting on his nerves.

"I need you to find someone for me."

"Yes. Ok. How much?"

"Good. His name is Fritzgerald Brewster. Uh-huh. He was in a project I invested in. Ran off with the money."

"Okay, I'll wire the money to you."

"Goodnight"

One might ask, just what does Fritz have to do with Hawke? It's simple really. Project Aurora. That's what links them. Hawke invested in it, backing Saint-James and Netzal, unaware of what they were really doing. Now, why would an English millionaire be interested in some stupid orb? Because it, and the watch, where his. And his alone. And he would get them back. At all costs.

 _A roadside diner, somewhere on I-5._

The first thing the shabbily dressed man sees when he exits his truck is dark. Dark dark dark. Pitch black, except for the neon sign, proclaiming the diner, 'T's', as open.

He walked in, and took a seat next to a man in black.

"What can I get you?"

He jumped at that, then looked up. A typical night shift worker, bags under eyes, makeup still somehow nice, and a tired expression.

"Coffee." His voice, gruff and matter-of-factly, sounded foreign to him, like a shadow of his former glory. Of course, he couldn't remember a thing from since... When? Ah well, it mattered not.

"Say, you, fellow in the black stovepipe-Lincoln, have you seen a Fritzgerald Brewster?" The man next to him turned. He looked exactly like him, down to the color of his eyes.

"Hawke sent you, didn't he? He can have his watch. I only need the pendant." Holiday's hand was pressed open, the cold steel of a watch pressing into his hand. The watch itself had an engraving, detailing when, and where it was made.

"1932, Dunkirk, Made for Col. V. Hawke. This watch has seen hell, eh?"

"Far more then just hell. It's seen drawing rooms aplenty, maps and bases and all sorts of things from the 1930s."

"So, it really is old."

"It's been in U-Boats, Shermans, Panzers, and landing craft."

"Old, as I said."

"Of course. I must be taking my day."

And then, he dispersed in a cloud of smoke, a purplish-blue hue following. Six dollars in one's resided at his spot at the counter. And Holiday walked to his truck, started it up, and drove to Philadelphia. Along the way, he called Hawke and promised to ship the watch to him. And it was done. The first case since he lost his memory, solved. Open and shut. Simple as that. And he drove.


	3. The Third and Fourth

**Author's Note: We** ** _finally_** **make it to Nevada. Criticisms always welcome.**

 _Cahill Numbers Station, Nevada_

"Listeners, if you're listening, good job. Reports, from the Anti-Agency, have come in. Seems that the community is not doing anything too supportive, so, um, go out there and support them! Also, if you see an Agent, undercover or not, don't kill them. Just report them to a superior. Also, reports from the front. We here at the station would like to thank one... Is, this right? You sure? Ok. We'd like to thank... Michael Kowinski for his... Death? Are... you sure? Really? Fine. Well, you heard it from me. Now, for some music. This time it's 'The Man Who Sold the World', so, uh, thanks to whoever requested that."

A hand reaches out, unsteady, before flicking the microphone off. He turns to the Grey haired man sitting behind him, who has a Browning Hi-Power at his back.

"What do you want, and who are you?"

"You did good, Conners. Very good. Unfortunately, I have little use for you. But pass a message to me, would you kindly?"

"I got a choice?"

"Of course... Not."

"What is the message?"

"It's to be sent to one 'Kathryn Sinclair'. Tell her this, and this only: 'Forty feet remain. Three five nine.'."

"That's all?"

"Yep. Simple. Here's her number."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I like using proxies."

The man hands over a slip of paper, walking off, slamming the station door against the sandy wasteland outside.

Inside the station, a hand sinks over to a red telephone, a by-product of the Cold War. It's picked up, and then dialed by a short man with black hair, forest green eyes, and a slight beard. He nervously glances at the paper, before he speaks.

"Forty feet remain. Three five nine."

 _Somewhere in New Mexico._

 _'Forty feet remain.' The sun beat down upon a head of fair hair. The deserts of New Mexico where hot, and even hotter when one was scoping out a building._

 _"No guards. Nothing. An empty building. Well, forty feet remain." She moved closer, kicking in the door, pistol at the_ ready.

And yet, it was empty. She moved to another room. A chair sat in the middle of it, a woman tied to it. Her black hair spilled over the back, but only barely. Kathryn moved closer, hugging her, and crying. She picks up a knife and cuts her free.

Clap. Clap. Clap. A man steps from the shadows, his hair the color of grey, and his eyes a deep green.

"You. You're that dammed caller."

"Congratulations. You figured it out. Michael Kennedy, at your service." 'Kennedy' smirked, a sly grin at his face.

"Oh, and you can leave, whenever. I don't really care. Take your girlfriend and go."

"We can go...?"

"Whenever, whenever." Kennedy gestures towards a door, slightly ajar, a jeep sitting outside, its interior cover, and keys in the ignition.

"Hurry along now. Know how much it cost me to rent this place? Little over a thousand. Good deal, if I say so."

Kathryn picks up the raven haired woman, whispering in her ear, "It'll be okay Samantha. Well get you to a doctor, see if anything wrong, it'll be okay."

The words resonated across the sandy dust-land that was New Mexico.

The sound of a jeep starting only served as a minor hurdle to the sound waves resonance.

"It'll be okay."


	4. The Fifth, The Lieutenant

**Author's Note: And now to immediately go an entire ocean away, and then to the geographic center of the U.S. Cool fact, that's Topeka, Kansas.**

 _Oxford, England_

The blond hair gentleman standing in the black suit made his was towards the casket, a bundle of tulips clutched in his hand, a single tear rolling down his face and plopping in the graveyard grass. He put the tulips on the casket, and turned, not wishing to see as they lowered his dear mother into the ground.

 _Topeka, Kansas_

"Michtell Pendleton? No, he's been out for two years now."

"What was he charged with?"

"Ever here of the Mariner Murders?"

"The one with all the dead sailors?"

"Bingo."

"My old man is a murderous dick?"

"Sorry Henry."

"I'll be fine."

Later, when he found his dad, he had a thirty-eight special pointed at his head. After insulting his son, and claiming his killed his mother, he shot himself. Blood got everywhere, and Henry picked up the Webly-Fosbery, and walked off.

He became an AAHW spymaster, hoping to help people... But, did it make a difference? People die all the time... And he couldn't stop it. No matter how much he tried.


	5. The Seventh, The Psychologist

A redheaded man with blue eyes framed by wire framed glasses, standing, er, sitting, at close to seven feet even sits in an office, swiveling around in a swivel chair. A intercom crackled to life on the wooden desk. "Dr. Matterson, Henry Townshend is here to see you." A Canadian accented voice, with _just_ a tingle of Germanic influence answered the faceless woman who lived in the intercom. "But of course. Have him in a bit, will you Hannah?"

"Of course Doc."

"Thanks." The sound of a computer dinging sounded. Ah, technology. Checking his email, Stephen Matterson swung around, reading most of the email in a short bit. One section caught his eye. An old friend of his was asking for him to go to his brother's funeral. Never one to deny requests, he sullenly sent an email to the friend, one Fritz Brewster, and waited.

Townshend's session went well, he remarked. The man, suffering from severe fear of closed spaces due to an incident when he was staying in a hotel, had all seemingly popped anyway into the void. Maybe he sensed the sullenness of Matterson's mood. For all the man's cheerfulness, funerals are depressing as shit. Didn't matter, as he packed up the car, and drove cross a border, the cross-country to Salem Massachusetts. Witch Capital of America, in Fritz' own words.

 **Authors' Note: And so we wrap up this shitty prequel with a psychologist's musings. Expect a wait time til next update, as I'm (as of now) winging it. Fully. Also, The Man Who Sold The World is an awesome song, no matter the re-edition, Bowie or otherwise.**


	6. The Man Who Sold The World

In the nineteenth-hundredth and eighty-sixth year, a man with green eyes and graying hair stands in a bar, the murky lighting and somewhat loud music drowning out any speakers, the man, an American, waits diligently at a back door. A man, big and brutish, a typical Russian, opens the door part way. In his hand is a pistol, which, in his large hands, looks like a toy gun a child would use. He growls out a phrase, "Password?" The man spoke in response, two words no American in the eighties would never say,  
"America sucks."  
"Come with me Kenzeington."  
"Of course." He was directed to a black SUV, with black tinted windows and a man in the back. He got in back.  
"Hello Antaoli."  
"Call me Grishin." The Russian man growled, a sense of annoyance in his voice.  
"Of course Grishin, of course. You have the money?"  
"You have the American's intelligence agencies bugged?"  
"Yes. Here is the device for listening into their communications." Kenzeington opens his coat, pulling out what looked to be a regular laptop.  
"Good job Kenzeington. The money is at my place. Nikolai, to my place." The large Russian grunted a sign of agreement, before driving to a apartment block.  
"So, what is your master plan for Russia and the world?"  
"To shut down every single electronic means of communicating, before invading Russia and the Americas."  
"Devious. Very devious."  
Soon the vehicle stops in front of a apartment, the three men getting out and walking inside.  
"Nikolai, search this place for bugs."  
"There are none. I checked."  
"Good. Let's get down to business." Grishin had an eye cocked at Kenzeington's odd request of his, but paid it no mind. Grishin was a average sized man, with brown hair, cut perfectly short. His eye (For the other one was cut by shrapnel from a grenade, and unusable) was a hazel colored mess of hazel. He pulls out a briefcase, handing it to Kenzeington. "The money. Take it and go."  
Elsewhere in a adjunct room, a man was listening in to the conversation. This same man was also with the Americans, as was Kenzeington. He had also been listening to every conversation in that car of Nikolai's, and had the power to just run into the room and shoot Grishin dead. He couldn't of course, Kenzeington's cover would be blown, and he needed the co- "There's a American spy, hiding in the kitchen."  
"Nikolai, check it."  
"Kenzeington's right." A man with blond hair was roughly brought out.  
"Kill him." And so, the crack of a Browning Hi-Power, silver, with engravings, signaled the beginning of the counter-intelligence world's most talented-slash-hated man ever, Casey Kenzeington, who would go on to play both sides like a fiddle, sell electromagnetic pulse bomb technology to a Lithuanian black marketeer, and would die in a car bomb, trying to get to the Western side of the world for one last betrayal.

 **Author's Note. Hooray for already written drafts! Expect a wait time til next one, still winging it here. Have a good day.**


	7. Doppelgängers'

_To most people in the Agency, the Internal Branch handles requisitions, and nothing else other. Truth be told, They handle a lot more then one would think. That's the reason Lieutenant Carver was chosen to lead it. Because They said so, and when They say something,_ They mean it.

Two blond men look across at each other. One has brown eyes, the other black. One is Henry Vincent Pendleton-Carver. The other, er, isn't.

"So, what can I do to look more like you?"

"For starters, Peter, no yellow tie. It's both an eyesore and I wouldn't be caught dead in it. Other then that, you're good, Mr. Monroe. Go out there and give 'em a speech to rival the best! Make them reporters eat right out your hand."

"Thanks for the well wishing, Lieutenant.

"Any time-" The door closes. "-Any time, you sucker. Ha! Too easy. Now, for some behind the scenes philanthropy. Send a supply truck to the lesser cared about places, and make the public love you..."

 _'Am I really helping, or am I hindering those people out there? Which is it? WHICH IS IT GODDAMMIT TELL ME I JUST WANT TO HELP. It doesn't matter, does it? I've been here for a month, nothing's changed. What am I? A figurehead. That's all I am. I just wanted to help...'_

A strangled cry emits, as the man rests his head on his desk, tears rolling down his face, plastering the blond hair to him. The man continues crying, his hazel eyes becoming stricken with memories, memories he had ignored. He cries, a bit harder this time, banging his head on 'his' desk, knocking over 'his' name plate.

"I just wanted to help..."

 **Author's Note. So, nervous breakdowns. Fun.**


	8. Funerals, and Not Much Fun

Salem, _Massachusetts, Witchcraft Capital of America_

Fritz Brewster stood over the tombstone as they lowered Nathaniel into it. Nathaniel. His brother. Dead. Fires kill, children, Smokey the Bear warns. Not many listen. He could see ghosts. The dead are rarely silent, even when they move on. A man in a black suit coat with black eyes instead of Fritz' blue stands over his own grave.

 _"Well, hello again,_ brother. _Been a while, huh? Heard you could see the dead. How's that going for you? Gone crazy yet?"_

"Nate. Go away. I don't want to seem crazy talking to air."

 _"Can't you just, telepath it to me?"_

"Not how it works, younger brother. I can't. You can. Pesky little thought barrier." He stood, walked to the grave, and placed a tulip on it, before walking off. The funeral was quick, clean, painful, yet painless. His father and mother cried, he cried, and Matterson stood off to the side, offering condolences. Nice man that Matterson was.

A week later, he'd wake up, drenched in sweat. Why was he dreaming about the fire? He wasn't in it bu- Nathaniel. He'd figured out how to get into dreams. What was he planning?

The next day he grabbed every supernatural studies book, and read them all.

A week later he signed back up at his old job. He'd never been happier. Sometimes stuff bugged him, but he rolled it off.

Besides, who would believe that the ghost of Nathaniel Brewster was haunting his twin?

 _To most people, what happened in Nevada, two groups, one revolutionary, one old-world backed, didn't exist. The media had reported on it, but soon turned their backs. There was the Agency, the revolutionaries backed by a shadowy figure. Then there was the creatively named Anti-Agency. Backers of the Old World. They fought the Agency, day in, day out. Same battlefields, same everything. War never changes, kids. But soon, the conflict spread. It spread fast. It went around America. Soon, war became routine. Day in. Day out. Same battlefields. Same bullets. Same guns. Same gunpowder. Same injuries. Same soldiers, rank and file._

To most people, himself included, Charles Zachary died on October the twenty-first to a gunshot to the head. Most didn't know he lived, even himself for a time. Of course, he changed his name to Mark Holiday, so how could they know it was an alias, if it was in his wallet? Soon, Holiday found himself back at his old job, finding people and things for a fee. But he could never find himself. He joked that he should, 'charge myself, maybe then I'll find out who I am'. The thing that kicked off it all was a hunt for an arms shipment, stolen by a tall, lanky, redheaded fellow. Or so his contact said.

 _Salem, Massachusetts_.

In a hotel the man stayed. He soon found the redhead, for they had adjacent rooms. When the arms shipment was brought up, the man, one Stephen Matterson, a psychologist, claimed to be attendant at a funeral. He had no reason to lie, and soon he picked the pieces together. His contact had lied. Holiday called him, then questioned him. Apparently the one how stole it was a Agency man. A poster child of the Internal Security Branch. So now, the two said bye to Fritz, and got a flight to Nevada, the Internal Branch's headquarters, as well as a no-mans-land


	9. Diners', Goons, and Speechwriters Galore

_'If you were to ask me what is more dangerous, a man with just a gun, or a man with a purpose and a gun, I'd say the man with just the gun, for he holds allegiance to none, or to any, nor does he have any cognition of what he is wroughting upon the innocent masses. The man with the purpose is restrained, for he has an idea of what's happening.' - 'Henry Carver' at his initial first speech. Speech writer: Peter Monroe._

The duo drove through the continental States, the radio turned to channel three, because, after all, 'Three is as lucky as any other number'. Along the way they found out more about this man they'd been hunting. For one, he was no Lieutenant Henry Carver, but rather, Company Clerk Henry Pendleton-Carver. For another, he had light blond hair, not dirty blond, like his body double. Of course, the two had never seen the body double. Nor did they know of Peter Monroe, speech writer for him.

It was a cool day, an oddity in itself, when they were stopped for the first time. They heard a ping, followed by the telltale crack of a rifle. Of course, Holiday had an idea, and of course, they sped off, stopping a mile down at a tiny little diner, roadside quality at best, horrible stomach ache at worst. Of course, they didn't mind. Holiday had no taste to speak of, and Matterson truly only wanted a drink.

It was not too long after they had their food, when a man, wearing black shades, black suit, and holding something behind his back walked up.

"Mister Markus Holiday?" He asked, his hand shifting, his voice cold and callous.

"And who's asking, dear friend?" Holiday responded, his own voice gruff and callous, to a lesser extent.

"The Agency is." At this, the man pulled out his gun, a Walther PPK, and aimed it at the black haired man's chest.

At what appeared to be just a flick of his wrist, two Desert Eagles sat neatly in his hands, er, hand, for the other had been blown off by a bomb (along with everything below the elbow.) So, one in his fake hand, one in the real hand.

"Try me. That's a PPK. Weak gun. .32, isn't it?"

"I.. Yes."

"So put it down. Unless, of course, you want two fifty caliber bullets in you." Neither of the two saw the brown haired woman with green eyes. Nor did they see the man wearing a black suit and top hat. Of course, they weren't really important.

The man lunged forward, firing his PPK, while Holiday ducked. Matterson ducked under the table, his eyes fearful.

A gunshot echoed, and the agent's head was but a bloody pulp. Time slowed, but resumed.

"H- HOLY HELL. YOU KILLED HIM!"

"I had too."

"No you didn't!"

"Yes I did. He was Agency, would've shot me either way. Let's go."

The fair haired woman spoke up. "I'll come as well. You'll need the help."

"Alright. Let's go."


	10. A How-To Book for Firing Squads

_January 29th_

It was a cold day, an oddity even in January's Nevada, when they stopped again, outside of a town that's been fought over so many times no-one even remembers why. One day, they just shot at each other. Lexington and Concord all over again. No one truly knows what side fired first, but it was turmoil nevertheless. Day in and out, sides changed every day, and for one radio disc jockey, it was hell keeping up.

Felix Connors was in his radio station, nursing his (recently wounded) leg with one hand and managing the daily radio broadcasts with the other. An Agency vehicle pulled up, or, rather, shuttered up. The Anti-Agency mechanics were shoddy and best, bound to catch flame from being looked at funny at worst. This one was no different. Two men, one tall and stocky, one short and thin, get out, and knocked.

"Just a minute. I need my crutch."

"Blast your crutch! Just get here!"

"Oh, I'm sorry that I need a crutch to walk."

Suddenly, the door burst open, the tall one marveling at his handiwork as he hauled Felix out of his chair and into the car, before cracking him upside the head with a rifle butt.

Twenty-five whole minutes of peaceful sleep later, he awoke, back shoved against a wall. Several townsfolk were lined up as well. This was a firing squad. And he was in the middle.

"Your crimes include; obstruction of justice, terrorism, and support of the enemy cause. Any last words, traitors?"

Several townsfolk screamed at the man, cursing his name and ideals, while some, Felix included, stayed quiet, from shock, maybe.

Rifles were leveled.

Cocked.

Aimed.

And yet, there was no crack of shodddily-put-together guns. No, it was the crack of a powerful pistol, in fact, eight cracks. Eight Anti-Agency folks lay, slain as can possibly be by the human body. A black haired fellow with eyes the color of an ocean walked up.

"People.-" He spoke, his voice gruff. "-You are free to go."

"Who are you?" Asked the townsfolk.

"Markus Holiday, at your service. Anyone want to help me with a job?"

Felix stepped up, nervous, and leaning on a wall. "I'll go. I was the cause of this, anyway."

"Wonderful. This will be the best partnership this side of the Atlantic!"

 **Author's Note of Notedness: Act One is done**


	11. Piers, Crutches and Stick-Shift

_January 31st, 2011_  
 _Pier 12, San Francisco Docks_

"Hello Mr. Ferdinand." Said by Kennedy, a man with green eyes, average stature, and a limp.  
"Mr. Kennedy. Pleasure to finally meet face-to-face, like gentlemen do." Said by a man with brown hair, brown eyes, average build, and a permanent smirk.  
"Walk with me, Kennedy."  
And they did, relishing in plans galore, evil ideas and schemes none could know about. Kennedy talked with the accent of an American, yet had the demeanor of a Cold War spy, whereas Ferdinand talked with a slightly lower pitched, more militarian voice.

 _Nevada, No-Man's-Land of the America's Second Revolution_

Connors, a man of African descent, walked (really just him sort of limp-crawling) into his radio room, supported by Matterson. Matterson, whose voice sounded rough, but was rather nice.  
"Hey, there's a chair there, why don't you sit down?"  
"Fine. Oh, and here-" Connors forked over a rather large deep purple trench coat, which Matterson put on. "- Don't really need it. And besides, you look good in purple."  
Matterson nodded, going to retrieve the crutch.  
He poked his head out, crutch in hand, a minute later.  
An hour after, it was dark, and Matterson was in a car, sitting shotgun, with Kathryn behind him, and Connors behind Holiday, who drove.  
Matterson sailed the stars, mentally, and made lines and connections between the pools of light that spilled into the vehicle.  
Kathryn hummed a love song, and idly traced her left ring finger, wondering when she'd get back to her Red, her Samantha that cooked horribly tasting eggs but could somehow make toast ok.  
Connors sat, listening to music, and fiddling with a walkie talkie that Kathryn had requested to be fixed. His thought process was simple, oh sure, but complex at times. Such as fixing a walkie talkie.  
Holiday drove like he had when he was in the army. Stick-shift and nothing else. He wondered why he remembered things, and was getting his real memor- Oh! Almost hit a car! Better shift down, grab the clutch, release, ease up on the pedal, shift further, clutch, release, clutch, release, clutch. It was a simple rhythm that kept him sane for the drive that lay ahead. It's gonna be a long one, he thought bitterly.

 **Author's Note: Don't worry, we'll get to Fritz and Hawke next chapter.**


	12. Project Helios

"Dear brother, it's time to wake up and smell the chalk markings."

Fritz dreams a fitful sleep, his dreams smashing together with the sounds of the dead and forgotten.

"I say again, wake up. It's Nathaniel, and I have something to tell you. About Aurora, and of another side project, Helios."

He turns, but alas, no dice. He dreams a nightmarish reality in which he killed, and killed, and never stopped. By something was off. It was the eye color, a subtle difference that could change context.

He awoke, drenched in worry and annoyance.

"So! Finally awake, are we?"

"Uh... Give me a minute before you start insulting m- ofh!" He fell back, the weight of a spirit entering his head too much to handle.

It was a dusty library they stood in. Brothers, one in pajamas, bluish-grey, and one in a black suit, top hat (with added red band.), and a crow on his shoulder. Fritz and Nathaniel. Two sides of the same coin. Same mother, father, house, but different rooms, schools, ideals, degrees, diplomas.

"Hello Fritzgerald! Long time no see. How's the wife, family? Business is good, still got that market on spirits cornered, eh?"

"Shut up. What's this Helios? And how does it relate to Aurora?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Nathan throws his top hat towards Fritz, but missed and hit a coat stand instead.

"Follow me, Fritzgerald! For you see, Helios is the main project, and Aurora? Just a side-show. Get Netzel and Saint-James some busywork. Helios. What isn't there? For starters, it was a better version of Aurora. In. Every. Way. It even got results. But, but but but. I want you to kill the project head. Name of Richard Hawke. Kill him."

"I... I'm no killer."

"You killed Netzal. And Saint-James."

"He's innocent!"

"Sure is. Which is why he needs to go. Now."

"I... Fuck you Nate!"

"Fritzgerald. For your own safety. Don't. Ever. Call. Me. That. Again. Comprehend? If you do, I will wipe you off the Earth."

"You're dead."

"But I have the power of ghosthood, and possession, on my side. And besides, Hawke's already dead. He's been dead! Good old cancer. As for the watch? Shipped to your friend Matterson. Now, off to take control of your body! Seeya, Fritzgerald!"

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, let me guess. The name died that day?"

"Yes. The only surviving record is my old name tag, from the facility."

"Too. Bad."

And with that, Fritz Brewster checked out. And Nathaniel checked in.

"Now, if I was my brother's top hat, where would I be? Aha! Ew, red band. Oh well, remove the band. And now, I'm back!"

 _Nevada_

"Package for Stephen Matterson."

 _Outskirts of Salem, Massachusetts_

 _Project Helios Main Building._

 _2:13 AM._

 _Project Helios Head: N. Brewster._

 _Assistant Project Head: S. Parker_

Simon Parker, a small, bookish American, with raven hair cut neatly, yellow eyes and a slight limp, paced his teensy-tiny (and messy) office.

Where was Nathaniel? He said he would be here to oversee the opening of Specimen Five... Oh, damn it all.

He turned to the radio that he had, dialed in a familiar frequency, and spoke harshly at the chief scientist, Roger Freesom.

"Damn it all Roger. Start the Specimen. Nate's not coming in tonight." He barked.

Then, a slight tapping. Slow at first, but soon known as Morse code.

 _'Boss is Back. See you inside.'_ It said. Cryptic yet informative.

And then, a slight knocking.

"Hold on Freesom. Someone claiming to be Nate is here." He said, strolling to the door.

He opened the wooden (birch, for the interested) door, and was greeted by Nathaniel-In-Fritz'-Body, being flanked by a guard.

"Hi Simon, how's the project?"

"Nate-, er, Nathaniel! What a pleasant surprise." A gritting of teeth. Forced kindness. A underlying hatred.

"Hi. Now, where were we last? Ah, Specimen Five. Have you done it yet?"

"Yes? Why are y-" A hand shot out and grabbed him, lifting him up.

"You were supposed to wait for me. I had a plan."

"I...ack...couldn't...wait...any...longer..."

"Neither can I." His grip tightened, nearly killing the man, before Simon's conscience was ripped from him, his eyes changed from yellow to black, just like Nathan's, and he was thrown away like a dirty paper plate.

Simon-Now-Nathaniel turned to the guard.

"Escort Professor Brewster away from here and to his apartment." And _phick_ a tranquilizer pistol dart stuck out of Fritz' neck, and he fell like a brick-carrying wheelbarrow going off a cliff.

To the radio: "Hi Roger. This is Nathaniel speaking. Run the tests for Heaven's-, er, Specimen Five. Yes, of course I'll be there for the unveiling. Project Helios will work. No matter the cost. Yes, my dear brother remembers nothing of my possession. I made sure. Then let us commence the Heaven's Gate Project protocols."

He went to retrieve his coat and hat from the coat hanger, put them on, and smirked.

"Heaven's Gate Shall Prosper."


	13. An Ordinary Mirror

A man strides into the laboratory that has served his purposes. His eyes are the color of a fire's ash, and just as shallow as a puddle. He is wearing a lab coat, draped over his shoulders. His hair, as black as the night sky (that is to say, not very black, more of a lighter black), is neatly cut, the type of cut you'd see on a businessman, or a professor. The man walks to a door, where two men, one a short, wiry man named Roger Freesom, the other a nameless scientist, stocky but not much else.

"Well, we can't find Specimen Five, Nathan."

"Oh? You can't find something that's _right in front of you?_ "

He opens the door, holding his arms out, gesturing to the room and spinning around.

"Gentlemen. _I'm Specimen Five_. Also known as Nathaniel Brewster."

The scientist, a newer member, is taken aback.

"But why?" Said the good scientist.

"Why? I'll tell you. Because reasons you wouldn't get. Now, run along and prepare Object 13."

The scientist nodded, and ran off.

"Nate, you sure this is a good idea? Starting so early, I mean." Said Freesom.

"Yes. And don't call me Nate."

The two stride into the sterile white room, in the center a ordinary mirror... To some, that is.

"Object 13. Analyzed, it showed promise for our goal of seeing into the veil, and seeing the future. Simple construct. Made of birch wood, an odd glass-like substance, which doesn't react to much, still testing that one and something.. Else." Lectured Freesom. "Rather interesting, wouldn't you say, Mr. Brewster?"

"Quite. Fire it up."

The mirror was uncovered (for it had been a 'safety concern' said Roger).

The void gazed, and Brewster and Freesom gazed back.

And they saw.

They saw death, destruction, chaos, and horror.

They saw the consequences.

They even saw their deaths.

They saw timelines where it all went ok.

Timelines that should never have existed.

And, worst of all... They saw themselves, looking into the mirror, thirty years late. A terrible consequence of that timeline's Freesom, who had shattered the mirror, believing it to contain evil.

If only he wasn't too late

If only the facility around them hadn't been torn to shreds.

If only they didn't turn and wave at the onlookers from another timeline.

If only, if only.


	14. A Countryman In Council

_San Francisco, California_

 _7:14 AM._

At the behest of Ferdinand, Kennedy followed him to a building owned by Ferdinand, commenting on the way.

"Nice place. Own it yourself?"

"Of course, we need a front after all." Replied the still-smirking man.

They walked inside, where both were stopped and told to hand over their guns.

Kennedy produced a silver Browning Hi-Power, telling the Garand wielding guard to 'take care of old Silverman here.'

Ferdinand produced a M1911A1, silver, with a twenty-two round magazine, telling the guard to 'take care of Flint.'.

"Say," Asked Ferdinand, "Who's Silverman?"

"One of the first victims of the Countrymen, an organization I worked with back in eighty-seven. Who's Flint?"

"I am. Malcolm Flint, leader of the Council, at your service."

They walked on in silence, Kennedy observing.

 _These men fashion themselves patriots, yet I sense a repeat of Grishin, Nikolai, Ezekiel, Jakob, and the Countrymen all over again. Cult of personality. Follow the leader. Easy enough in Nevada, harder back East. Maybe these fanatics can make it work. Doubt it._

To the doorman at Flint's room, Flint said,

"The Council of Lincoln Shall Rise Again."

 _Carson City, Nevada._

 _9:05 AM_

After ordering his tea and breakfast, the (formerly Company Clerk) Lieutenant sat alone, looking around.

Finally, his tea arrived, he sighed in relief, and tentatively took first ignition, sipping at the scalding hot liquid.

Across the street, a man by the name of Franklin Ross gulped, and walking into the diner, and stood in front of Carver's table, his calloused hands behind his slightly tanned body, which was hidden by a informal military outfit, with a patch, the symbol of the Council, depicting an eagle, spread-eagled (ironic, some readers might note) with Thompson SMGs in each talon. A brown duster coat rests on his shoulders, partly obscuring a Single Action Army revolver, fully loaded.

He stood by, shifting every so often, as his target drink his weekly cup of leafy water.

He sips, finally done with the liquid, and looks at the man.

"So, what do you want? Come to shoot me?" Queried Carver, a hint of curiosity at this revolver using assassin.

Ross' voice, rather standard, answers. "For the good of the Council."

"So be it. You ever hear of the saying 'Manners Maketh Man'? Probably not. You're just a hired gun." Carver smacks his cane down onto the table, whipping it back to the edge, before flicking his wrist, sending the poor innocent teacup (and saucer, how _dare_ him?) flying towards the man's 'already reaching for his gun' hand.

"Now, shall we?" He said upon impact.

Ross lunged forwards, attempting to strangle Carver. A few quick minutes later, Ross and Carver duel with one using a cane-sword, and the other using a rather large knife.

Carver's strikes and stabs are precise, exactly where he wants.

Ross' strikes are impractical, and often ended up hurting him instead.

Finally, after an intense fight, Ross pulls his gun out, looks at Carver, dead on in the eyes, and says, slowly at first, then developing into screaming.

"The Council hasn't been stopped. THE COUNCIL SHALL RISE AGAIN."

And then, he pulls the trigger, splattering Carver in blood yet again.

The words echo across the street, and into the passing patrolman's ears.

"The Council Shall Rise Again."


	15. Voicemail Messages Are Annoying, Eh?

**Author's Note: Pure filler, with a shattering of plot. It's voicemail time.**

 _"You've reached Mark Holiday's voicemail. Speak after the beep."_

 _[A beep, followed by speaking]_

 _"Mr. Holiday? It's Kennedy. I've found out more about the arms shipment. It contained replicas of M1 Garands, Thompsons, and several other American guns. I've also found one of the aliases used by the man you're hunting. A '[Unintelligible] Ferdinand'. Thank you for taking this job, let me know if I can help."_

 _[A clicking noise is heard, followed by a dial tone]_

 _"Hi, you've reached the_ personal _voicemail of Stephen Matterson. For inquires about office hours, it's 7 AM to 11 PM. Any other inquiries can be made at my secretary. If this_ isn't _about office hours, or you want to reschedule, leave your piece at the voicemail beep. As annoying as it is."_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by a female's voice]_

 _"Hi, Steph, it's Nat. Where in the_ hell _are you? I'm worried sick! Everyone is! Maddie wants to see you again, I don't know why, and apparently Hannah, your assistant, hasn't seen you since you left for that weirdo-friend's brother's funeral. Call me back when you can. Love you brother. Even if you are an idiot."_

 _[A Click is heard, followed by a dial tone]_

 _"Hey. You've reached Kathryn Sinclair's voicebox-mail-whatever. I'm either having the time of my life with my soon-to-be wife, Red, or I'm being shot at. Take your pick, and leave a message after the beep." [A different, female voice comes on] "Beep!"_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by worried speaking]_

 _"[Sighing] Kathy, Kathy, Kathy. You better not be doing anything stupid. Kathy, did I ever tell you how empty it feels without you? As if im in space, all alone. I hear the doctor, but it's hard. I feel cold, but I don't. This probably makes no sense. Oh well. Our marriage didn't make sense, and here we are. Call me when you're done shoving that guy who kidnapped me's head into his grave."_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by a dial tone]_

 _"You've reached the voicemail of Henry Carver. Leave your message at the beep, yadda, yadda."_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by speaking]_

 _"Mr. Carver? About the Council of Lincoln guy... You might want to visit my office. As soon as humanly possible. Love ya."_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by a dial tone]_

 _"Hallo. You've reached the voicemail of Professor Richard Walker. Leave your inquiries at the beep. If you've already started talking, slow down a little."_

 _[A beep, followed by speaking.]_

 _"Hallo to your voicemail, Walker. It's Fritz, incase you can't tell by voice alone. I have a family emergency, and I need the next... Four weeks off. I'll settle for two, if need be. Thanks in advance, and nice voicemail. Made me feel at home."_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by a dial tone]_

 _"Hey. You've reached the voicemail of Fritz Brewster, professor of mythology at a university. Leave your complaints after the beep."_

 _[A beep, followed by speaking]_

 _"Professor Brewster, your request has been accepted, and we'll find a substitute for your class for four weeks. Even if it is small class. Good luck with the family."_

 _[A beep is heard, followed by a dial tone]_


	16. Little Revolution

_Agency Internal Security Branch HQ_

 _Room 505_

 _12:05 PM._

 _[CAMERAS ACTIVE]_

A man, dressed in a tacky green suit, polishing a monocle in one hand and fumbling with a lighter in the other, looks at the blond haired gentleman in front of him.

"Lieutenant Carver. Nice to meet you."

"Commander Murphy. Same to you."

The man finishes polishing the monocle, putting in his right eye, before lighting the lighter, putting the flame to a new cigar and putting the lighter away and the toxic-smelling death stick in his mouth.

Commander Gabriel Theodore Murphy extends a cigar pack to his whitely-dressed comrade, who refuses, stating he 'never got into the taste.'

"Now, Commander about this-" Carver pushes away some smoke from the cancer-giving tool of death. "-Council?"

"Ah, yes. Hold on a minute-" Murphy pulls out a button, pressing down on it. A camera, the only one in the room, powers down and falls against its' track. "-Let me shut it down. You were saying?"

"The Council of Lincoln. Are they just fanatics?"

"Nailed it Carver my dear boy. Fanatics, 'patriots', so called 'True Americans'. All bullshit. Their leader is Malcolm Lincoln Flint, an ex-officer to a 47th Artillery Corps. US Army. They're dangerous, and I'd steer clear of them. The man you encountered was Franklin Ross. Flint's third-in-command. Seems they've taken an interest in you. I'd steer clear of the public eye for a bit. Lie low, y'know?"

"No. If they want a fight, then I'll bring one to their doorstep."

"Absolutely not! You are to stay here and continue your duty!"

"And what is my duty? To be a poster child for some sick organization that isn't even trying to be revolutionary? To pretend to ignore the starving masses? To ignore the randomly gunned down women and children? To not CARE ONE _BIT_ ABOUT ANYONE _ELSE_?"

At this Murphy snapped. A string, pulled too taut, prepared, and then snapped. He blew up.

"LISTEN HERE YOU SHITHEADED FUCK, I. AM. YOUR. CO. YOU DO AS I SAY. OR. ELSE. GOT IT, PUNK? NO MORE MISTER NICE GUY."

"Tick. I was planning on leaving anyway. Such a shame it had to be on a sour note. Sorry Gabe. This is for your own good."

"WHAT ARE YOU SAY-" Carver suddenly pulled his cane up, and then smashed Gabe Murphy in the head, knocking off and breaking his monocle and cigar.

"Nighty-night old sport."

An agent watched through a window, looking on as Carver raised a finger to his lips in a shushing manner. Said agent dashed off to tell someone, as Carver hefted the unconscious Commander into a chokehold, his Webly-Forsby pointed at Murphy's head.

"FREEZE! LIEUTENANT HENRY CARVER, YOU ARE UNDER ARRES- is that Commander Murphy?"

"Hello. Yes. Let me go with my men and he lives. If not, then bon voyage dear commandant."

"I- Jecobs, can he do _this_?"

Came the reply from a ginger haired man with red eyes: "Probably."

"Let him go."

"Let _me_ go." Came the defensively defiant reply, almost agitating to some of short temper.

"...Fine. Hand him over. Orders are being relayed to your team, they're getting a jeep." A bitter note, an annoyed sigh, and a shaking of the head. The deal was made.

"Excellent." The trade off was simple. Stupidly so even. Carver just threw Murphy on the linoleum-checkered tile and walked to a jeep.

At the same time as Carver briefing his men on his new plan, Holiday listened to his voicemail, and gathered Matterson, Sinclair and Connors in one room, who were surprisingly not too annoyed with the prospect of leaving their shitty motel.

"Boys, we're going to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Pack up. We leave in an hour."

 _San Francisco -1:05 PM_

 _Council of Lincoln Headquarters._

 _[security systems active]_

 _[RADIO SIGNALS DETECTED, BLOCKED...]_

 _[SIGNALS LOST. AREA SECURE.]_

 _[SWITCHING CAMERAS TO NUMBER FIVE CAMERA]_

A man with salt and pepper colored hair sits in a chair, a silver briefcase held in his calloused hands, one eye looking out a window, one vacant, a mere glass shell to hide the socket. Next to the glass eyed man stands a former state governor, Daniel Frost. A stocky fellow, Frost was idly toying with his tie clip, detaching and reattaching it to his black-and-silver-checked tie.

"Great view, isn't it Mr. Kolzov?"

"Yes. Very... American." Came the reply from the salt and pepper haired Estonian.

"Mhm." The voice sounded like a stereotypical car salesman, or maybe a typical dirty politician, which, ironically, Frost was.

A door opens behind them, and in stepped Flint, his hazel eyes a mess of patience and annoyance, and Kenzeington, his green sockets a mess with worry about this 'Frost' fellow.

"Mr.'s Kennedy and Flint. Hello."

"Mr. Frost, has Kennedy met our favorite benefactor?" At this Ezekiel Kolzov turned around, and stared straight though Kenzeington.

"Hello, Mr. Rose. Or is it Kennedy? Or are you sticking with Kenzeington now? You really ought to keep them straight, Case."

"Ziggy. H-how the hell? You broke out of jail? How?"

"I had a little help from a friend. It's called money. Which I counterfeited. That's my business."

"You should be dead."

"Oh please. I'm just like you, Mr. Kenzeington. A man who sold the world. Only I charged them 2.40. Million. US Dollars. And you charged them a dollar. US Dollars too, I assume?"


End file.
